The Real Third Quarter Quell
by nothingbutgoneness
Summary: "This story is about what almost happened, what should have happened, at the third Quarter Quell, if there was no rebellion...If President Snow wasn't a liar." Hunger Games AU. Spoilers for the series. TUMBLR IS klainebowsandquirrelmort.
1. Prologue

**Prologue **

President Snow was a liar.

But of course you already knew that. Even though he struck that bargain with Katniss Everdeen to never lie to her, and vice versa, not a soul in Panem can deny that Snow was a dirty, deceiving, manipulative, controlling, evil _liar_.

But this is not a story about President Snow.

This is a story about the third Quarter Quell.

You all know what happened during the 75th Hunger Games. I'm not going to recap it here; there's a whole book dedicated to that. But the small yellow envelope that President Snow read from before the Reaping was a _lie_. The original founders of the Games did not intend for past victors to ever reenter the arena. No, that particular torture was thought up in some war room in the Capitol, all with the intention of covering up Katniss Everdeen's execution.

Again, none of that is what this story is about.

This story is about what _almost_ happened, what _should_ have happened, at the third Quarter Quell, if there was no rebellion. If the mockingjay meant nothing. If Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark had just lived in Victor's Village in District 12 in what little peace they had left.

If President Snow wasn't a liar.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

I rise before the sun, just like every morning. The sweet smell of motor oil hangs thick in the air, but I don't notice it. I'm not sure I even can anymore. I'm sure the black stuff is all that runs through my veins. I swing my legs on the dusty wooden floor of the three-room shack my piecemeal family recently moved into. My boorish stepbrother, a giant named Finn, is still dead to the world. I can't believe after all these years he can still sleep through the damn chiming from the train station. I choose to let him sleep; it doesn't bother me if he misses breakfast, because then I get his rations.

I tug thick denim overalls on top of my blackened white work shirt. This work shirt isn't like the fabulous ones I see at televised Capitol events. This is tightly woven cotton, sturdy enough to not rip, short-sleeved enough to not trap steam against your skin. I don't bother putting shoes on—I'm going to change right after breakfast anyway—and head out to the space that functions as both a kitchen and a communal area.

Carole's already fixed most of the meal, her brown hair swept back by an oil-stained bandana. I like my new stepmother; she doesn't mind that my voice is abnormally high or my skin is abnormally pale or my features are abnormally feminine. She listens to me when I confide in her, late at night when no one can hear us, that I see myself sketching and designing and creating clothes in the future, not piecing together trains and hovercrafts for the rest of my life. But such dreams are not possible in District 6, where everyone does _something_ to keep the production of Panem's transportation systems running smoothly.

Breakfast today is a scoop and a half of plain oatmeal. This is good for my father's heart; the healer's herbs barely saved him the first time around. This is also good for my stomach; on a day like today, the less chance I have of regurgitating meals, the better. This is bad for Finn; his stomach is probably twice the size of a normal eighteen-year-old's, and he always complains when he's hungry. As if he wasn't used to it by now.

Carole and I eat in silence. My father has already been at the tracks for an hour or so; I keep insisting he get more rest, but the train boss, a hardened man named Nimmo Greenlaw, refuses to let him work less than the fourteen hours required of a man his age. I am just about to swipe Finn's portion of oatmeal when the big oaf himself lumbers into the room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He groggily kisses his mother's cheek and collapses into the haphazardly patched chair beside mine, nearly breaking it _again_. He and Carole finish their meager meal while I stand from the rickety old table and place my dishes in the wooden wash basin.

"I'm going to dress," I announce perfunctorily, knowing that they know exactly how this day is going to go. I slip back into my shared bedroom and don the outfit I've had picked for weeks—because it's the only nice one I own. My father's old dress pants, taken in by my own hand, and a simple white button-down that Carole's late husband once wore. Finn would have gotten it, but his torso is far too long, so I received the hand-me-down instead. I have my own dress shoes, though; well, they're not so much dress shoes as Peacekeeper uniform shoes that my best friend "found" for me.

My best friend. Blaine. We'd known each other since we were rugrats. His mother and mine were friends—as close friends as you could be when you have entire households to run—before we born. I'm a year older than Blaine, but to look at us you wouldn't know it. He's so calm and quiet and strong that everyone assumes he's older. I don't mind, though; being young has its advantages in the districts.

I finished dressing in my finery and leave the house. I promised to meet up with Blaine at our usual rendezvous point right before we left for the district square. I maneuver through the crowded streets, grimacing at the hustle and bustle of the people in my village. The adults without children are, for the most part, excited, for they don't have to work today; the only reason my father went it is because he is the premier hovercraft mechanic in this part of 6, and there is some emergency he is needed for. The adults with children, however, are more subdued, shuffling their kids along like cattle toward the train station. The only reason 6 has a train system is that we are responsible for all transportation in Panem. It works for us, because our village, which is in the eastern portion of 6, is far from the Justice Building, which is several hours west. If we had to walk to the ceremony that is to take place tonight, we would have had to begin our trek two days ago.

I finally make it to the deserted alley behind the Andersons' house. Their house is actually a house, not a shack, because the Andersons are one of the few wealthy families in 6. Struve Anderson, Blaine's father, controls part of the train line that runs from 6 to the Capitol, so he rakes in a fair amount of profit from each run. On days like today, when the trains will be running all day, Mr. Anderson will be sure to earn quite a hefty sum.

I throw a few stray berries at what I know to be Blaine's window, smiling when his face appears behind the glass. He holds up one finger to keep me waiting, and then runs from the window. I automatically head to the back door, the exit that only Blaine and the Andersons' maid, Nitya Redpath, use. The former comes barreling out, wrapping me up in a warm, tight hug. "I missed you," he whispers in my ear.

"I saw you only yesterday!" I laugh, hugging him back.

I suppose I'm lying when I say that Blaine is my best friend. It is true that I spend more time with him than with anyone else, that I confide in him things I would never tell another soul, that I would thoughtlessly sacrifice my own life so that he might live on—but all that amounts to more than just best friendship. I can't come right out and say we're boyfriends; in a district like 6, such a bold proclamation will get us both sixty lashes apiece, and that's only because we're both underage. But when I look into Blaine's large hazel eyes, card my fingers through his thick black curls, snuggle deep into his warm tight embrace, I know for a fact that I love him far beyond the scope of best friendship.

Blaine tugs me by the hand to the metal grate on the back wall of the alley. Blaine and I discovered the abandoned tunnels behind this grate when I was ten. Blaine figures the tunnels were once used as a means of faster transportation between work stations for the men who labored as train and hovercraft builders, but there are other routes now that are more efficient. I refuse to go through them without him, because one day when I tried to go to our secret spot alone, I was nearly bitten by a large horde of rats. Sometimes I still get nightmares of waves of foul rodents devouring my eleven-year-old body.

So now Blaine always leads the way, crouching down to waddle through the tunnels first. I follow close behind, still jumping at every squeak and scratch I hear. We both have the path to our place memorized so that we could get there with our eyes closed. Soon enough, a short tube empties out into a small, grassy field, any traces of human interaction beside our own long since washed away by nature. We collapse into the grass, stretching our aching backs. Tunnel navigation was much easier when we were ten and only had to bend our heads down. Our hands automatically lock as we gaze into the sun. I sneak a peek over at Blaine and feel a pang of guilt. The crisp white shirt he was wearing had black smudges all over it, and his neat black pants were wrinkled and scuffed. "We shouldn't have come out here dressed like this," I murmur, not wanting to disturb the quiet around us.

Blaine just shrugs. "We'll leave in time for me to be able to change. You can too, if you want. I'm sure you'll fit into some of my clothes." Just the thought of being in Blaine's clothes makes me blush.

We don't speak again for some time, watching the sun climb higher and higher into the sky and listening to rabbits and squirrels rustle in the trees that line the northern edge of the field. I know we should get up, go back, get changed, go to the train station, but I can't bring myself to break the moment.

So Blaine does. "So...today's the day."

Tears automatically fill my eyes. _Stop that, Kurt. There's nothing to cry about._ I know what he means, of course. I turned eighteen last month. This is my last Reaping. My last chance to have to participate in the Hunger Games. I don't say anything.

Blaine rolls onto his side, taking our grasped hands into his free one and rubbing circles on the back of mine. "How many times is your name in the pot?"

I stare fixedly at the hazy gray sky above, refusing to see his reaction to my answer. "Twenty-nine." I hear him let out a shaky breath, and my eyes prickle again. As an eighteen-year-old, my name only has to be in the drawing seven times, but my family, like so many others, needs more food, more supplies, more _everything_, so since I was twelve I've been buying more Reaping entries for tesserae. This year, My name had to be in the drawing a minimum of twenty-four times, but with a family of four, I added four more slips for extra grain and oil. I don't regret it. "Don't...don't feel—Finn's name is in there twenty-nine times as well." I don't know why I tell him this. My father refused to let me put my name in more than twenty-five; I snuck back to the Peacekeeper in charge of the exchange of tesserae for another four while my father was at the station. Carole was more reasonable; she allowed Finn, now an eighteen-year-old man, to put his name in as many times as he saw fit. I know it broke her heart to do it, but my respect for her grew that day. Finn's and mine combined tesserae will keep our family fed for two years, which is a relief, as this is our last Reaping, and our last chance to earn grain and oil this way.

I know Blaine, a seventeen-year-old, only has his name in the drawing the requisite six times. His family doesn't need tesserae. He is practically in the clear. I feel his breath on my ear as he whispers, "If you get chosen, I'll volunteer in your place."

I bolt upright, ripping my hand from his grasp. "No, you won't!" I hate shouting the field. It seems like a crime against nature. But I can't bring myself to care about nature right now, not when my boyf—my best friend is saying crazy things. "No, Blaine, _no_. Promise me, right now, that you won't."

Blaine just shakes his head obstinately. "I can't. I can't watch you leave for those damn Games, watch you on my TV, watch you _die—_" He chokes off, but I don't sympathize. I grab his face in my hands and drag it closer to mine. "You listen to me, Blaine Anderson. You and I...I know we're special. I know what we feel for each other. _I am telling you that it doesn't matter._ You cannot let your feelings for me, or—or my feelings for you put your life in danger. The odds are ever in your favor, Blaine, and we're going to keep it that way. Promise me that you won't volunteer." He stays silent. I shake him slightly, feeling myself start to fray at the edges. "Promise me!"

"I promise," he whispers, his eyes downcast. And then I lose it. I pull his face in even closer and lock our lips together, crashing us down onto the earth. I'm sprawled out on top of him, but he just wraps his arms around my waist and brings me in tighter. This isn't the first time we've kissed—no, that was when I was fifteen and he was fourteen, right outside the back door of his house. I was saying goodnight, and just as I was about to walk away, he grabbed my arm, pulled me back, and touched his lips to mine, just for a moment. I honestly don't remember how I got home that night, just that I was giggly and giddy for a day or two. Since then, we've only kissed a handful more times, and always in the meadow. Getting caught kissing another boy...I don't even want to think about those consequences.

But I kiss him now, because it's Reaping Day and he just said some pretty romantic stuff and _I_ just said some pretty romantic stuff and we're in our secret place and he smells so good and I love him I love him I love him. We lay there for some time, lips moving past lips to explore cheeks and necks and noses and it feels so good. But eventually I feel the sun hot on my back, and I look up to see that it's nearly noon.

The last train leaves at 13:00.

"Blaine!" I leap off of him and point to the sky. He realizes my distress and jumps up, grabbing my hand. Without another word, we race through the tunnels, weaving our way through the familiar path until we stumble out into the alleyway. We sneak back into Blaine's house, carefully avoiding his impatient parents, and head into his closet, where we change into some of Blaine's other dress clothes. His pants are all slightly too short on me, but I manage to find a pair of blue slacks that just touch the top of my shoes. I match that with a lighter blue button-down, and then I turn to look at Blaine.

Who, of course is shirtless. I try to look away, but the sight of his strong back bent over, fixing his belt, is mesmerizing. I manage to rip my stare away right as he turns to grab another white shirt to put on. I whip back around and ask, "You ready?"

Blaine just laughs. "You know, Kurt, you _can_ look at me. I mean, we're both men, it's not like we'll see anything new."

Face fully red, I turn around again. Luckily, his shirt his buttoned. "I know that! It's just...we're more than just two people of the same gender. We're two people of the same gender, with..." I don't finish.

So Blaine does. "With feelings? Yeah, I know. Come on, your father's probably wondering where you are." We leave his closet and go back downstairs. At least I'm not gawking in awe at the relative opulence around me, like I did the first few times I was in Blaine's house. I know that his house isn't nearly as gaudy as those in the Capitol, but compared to the shack I live in, it's a palace.

The Andersons are waiting at the bottom of the stairs. "There you are, son," Mr. Anderson says coolly. "Where were you?"

I know Blaine's relationship with his father is rocky at best, but if he hopes to inherit the family business when he's older, he has to play nice. "Sorry, Father. I was helping Kurt dress for the Reaping."

"Yes," Mr. Anderson sneers, his lip curling as he takes me in. I have no doubt in my mind that both Blaine's parents know exactly what we mean to each other, and how they feel about it—but they don't say anything, because turning me in means turning Blaine in, and that would not do well for their already sour public image. "Kurt, I believe you should head home now. I'm sure your father is waiting _anxiously_ for you." I'm not quite sure what the man is trying to imply, but I don't like it.

I turn and nod goodbye to Blaine. "See you at the square," he murmurs in reply. I leave the house the same way I entered and race home. The streets are already mostly empty; everyone must have taken the early trains to the Justice Building. I skid to a stop in front of my house, where my father, stepmother, and stepbrother are all standing, worry written all over their faces.

"Kurt!" My father wraps me up in a hug, as if I might fall apart at any second. "Where have you been, kid? We thought maybe you'd forgotten, and you _know_ the punishment for missing a Reaping." Oh, I know. A few years ago, one of my classmates, Jacob Israel, missed the Reaping. When we came back, he was gone. We never found out exactly what happened to him.

"Sorry, Dad," I say. "We should hurry, the last train is leaving soon." The four of us walk the mile or so to the train station, where we just make it onto the last third-class car. The benches are hard and crowded, but after all these years, we don't even notice anymore. Carole immediately strikes up a conversation with Blye Perthshire, the woman who runs the apothecary. The train begins to move, and more than anything I want to be holding Blaine's hand, to fall asleep with my head on his shoulder, to have his arms around me as my heart picks up speed with every passing mile. But he's in the single first-class car, where there are few others and chairs instead of benches and curtains on the windows. So I stare at my knees and just wait.

In the hour and a half it takes us to go from our village, Rime, to Antium, the city where the Justice Building is, I say nothing. Finn says nothing. My father says nothing. Only Carole, ever optimistic, can keep up a conversation. We disembark at the train station—which is so much nicer than the one in Rime—and are herded by white-clad Peacekeepers to the enormous square, where all the twelve- to eighteen-year-olds in 6 have gathered for the sorting. On the northern side of the square is the large wooden stage where Will Shuester, the future tributes' escort, stands alone next to a singular glass bowl with the height and circumference of a train wheel.

The sight of the lone bowl makes me pause. In the past six Reapings I've been to, there have been two bowls, one for female tributes, and one for male. I remember that this is a Quarter Quell, so something must be different. Above the stage hangs a large television screen, which currently displays nothing more than the Capitol seal.

I kiss Carole's cheek and hug her quickly before turning to my father. His eyes are glistening, and my heart breaks. Hugging him tightly, I whisper, "Don't worry about me, Dad. Whatever happens, I'm going to come home."

"Just what I like to hear," he laughs brokenly in my ear. "No matter what happens, no matter what you have to do, I'm still going to love you, okay? Just remember that." All I can do is nod. I let go of my father and leave Finn to say his goodbyes. I search the crowd around me for a head of curly hair. After a minute, I find it near the stage. I practically attack Blaine from behind.

He jumps and spins around, but smiles when he realizes it's me. "Hey, you." He hugs me back. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

I grin in return. "In yours, as well." Just then, there's a call from Will to separate into boys and girls and line up by age. Blaine and I walk hand-in-hand to the boys' side, on the western half of the square. I squeeze Blaine's hand one last time and leave him to go stand in the very back with the other eighteen-year-olds. Blaine is only a few rows in front of me. He gives me a final smile and turns to face the front. I stand next to Finn. We give each other a silent nod, for hope, for brotherhood, for love.

Will approaches the microphone and smiles. "Welcome to the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games!" He sounds so gleeful, but frowns slightly at the less-than-enthusiastic applause he gets in return. "As you all know, at the Reaping, we pick one boy and one girl from this district between the ages of twelve and eighteen to compete against those from all the other districts in the Hunger Games. But this year, the seventy-fifth year since the conception of the Games, is a Quarter Quell, so things are going to go a little differently. For an explanation, we turn to President Snow."

The seal on the screen disappears, and President Snow, standing on the Capitol stage on which the future tributes would be interviewed, comes into view. Beside him is a young boy dressed in white, a wooden box in his hands. The president smiles. "Welcome to the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games! These Games were initiated seventy-five years ago to remind all twelve districts of the Dark Days that plagued Panem. They are to remind us all of the districts' rebellion, and the Capitol's triumph. Each year, one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen from each district are brought here to the Capitol to fight to the death in our arena. Only one can make it out alive, despite last year's anomaly." A small murmur ripples through the watching crowd as we all remember Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the joint victors from District 12. "Every twenty-five years, during the Quarter Quell, the rules of the Games change slightly, to keep fresh the memory of the Dark Days, and their bitter end. On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a remind to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it. On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes.

"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell." President Snow lifts the lid of the box that the boy holds out, and removes from it a yellow envelope embossed with a _75_. He opens the envelope carefully and slides out the card inside. He reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder that the districts' loss was greater than that of the Capitol, and that both men and women died in great numbers, every district must send three tributes, and there will be no separation by gender." The anthem plays, and the seal replaces President Snow's smiling face on the screen.

The murmur grows to a buzz as everyone realizes what this means. The tributes could be any combination. Three boys. Two boys, one girl. Two girls, one boy. Three girls. All of any age. I exchange a heavy look with Finn. Thirty-five other tributes is a lot more to defeat than twenty-three.

Will speaks loudly into the microphone to gather everyone's attention. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, we shall now being the Reaping process." He sticks a hand deep into the bowl beside him, fishes around for a moment, and pulls out the first name. "Brittany Pierce." A loud roar erupts from where the adults stand watching. Brittany is a fourteen-year-old blond girl, I judge from where she's standing. She appears to be very...flighty as she dances up to the stage. It's almost as though she doesn't understand what horrible fate was just handed to her.

Will digs in the bowl again and pulls out another name. "Kurt Hummel."

I freeze. No, that can't be me. The odds were most certainly not in my favor—thirty-five slips is a lot—but with both the girls' and the boys' names in one bowl, thirty-five was hardly anything. I know for a fact Lartius Herriot, a fifteen-year-old boy from Rime, has his name in there no less than eighty times. I look at Finn pleadingly, hoping to see nothing bad there, but his face is full of sadness. My eyes rip from my brother's and search ahead of me, quickly locking onto a hazel pair that is full of tears. I see Blaine mouth something to me.

_I love you_.

Fighting sobs, I stumble my way out of the ranks of eighteen-year-old boys and up to the stage, where I stand next to Brittany. Will greets me, but I don't hear him. My face is as empty as my head is. I find Blaine's face again. I have never seen so much agony in one pair of eyes. I don't even bother trying to find my father; I know that what I'd see in his eyes would haunt me until my last breath. Instead, I try to soothe Blaine, to keep him together, but I can see by the hand clapped over his mouth that he has to physically restrain himself from volunteering to be a tribute in my stead.

But it turns out that he doesn't have to.

Because the next and final name that Will pulls out of the bowl is _Blaine Anderson_.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

The scream rips from my throat before I even register it. Every eye in the square snaps to my face, but my eyes are still locked on Blaine's face, which shows nothing but pure—_relief_? I don't understand his expression as he calmly leaves the crowd of boys and walks up onto the stage. I expect fear, confusion, doubt, anger-but his stoic face suggests _relief_. Well, that can't be right.

Blaine stops next to me on the stage. I want to throw my arms around his neck, to sob, to kiss him senseless, but the eyes of everyone in 6 and half a dozen cameras are trained on the two of us, so I settle for an intense stare.

Will's tentative cough brings everyone's attention back to the Reaping. "Well, here you are! District Six's tributes to the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games!" The applause is once again lukewarm. I finally find my father in the crowd of onlookers. His eyes are bright, but he smiles at me and nods. I know I'll see him again in a few minutes, so I just nod in return. Eight Peacekeepers surround me, Blaine, and Brittany, and we are escorted off of the stage and into the Justice Building. We march up several flights of stairs, unable to say a word to each other, before we are separated into rooms. I barely get to take a look around mine—it is sparsely decorated and dusty—before the door opens again and Finn flies in. He wraps me up in a bear hug. "FINN! CA—BREEF!" I shout, the sound muffled by his broad chest.

"Oh, right." He releases me, and I gently crack my aching back. "I can't believe they picked you. I mean, my name was in there more times times than yours."

I tell him before I change my mind. "Not quite. I added another four slips." Finn's jaw drops, but I don't give him time to protest. "It had to be done, Finn! Those extra tesserae gave our family another year's worth of grain and oil. It was worth it. Besides, there's not use scolding me now. It's already done."

Finn swallows and nods. "You need to be careful out there, okay? Those Career Tributes, they know what they're doing. You're a small guy, Kurt. I want you to come home."

My eyes are most certainly _not_ watering as I pull him in for another hug. "Take care of him, okay?" I whisper. "His heart is bad, you know that. This is a lot of stress on him. Do what it takes to keep him healthy."

"I will." Finn squeezes me one more time before he lets go and leaves the room with a final smile. Carole takes his place moments later, and she, too, grabs me into her arms. I let her cry into my shoulder, rubbing small circles into her back. After while, she pulls back and takes my face in her hands. "Do what you have to to come home, okay?" She stares at me intently until I nod. "Good boy." She sniffles. "I'll go get your father, okay?"

I smile weakly at her. "Thanks Carole. Take care of him for me?"

"Always." She walks out sniffling. A few moments later, my father enters, and this time, I'm the one who runs in for a hug. He takes me into his arms easily, and I sob uncontrollably into his shirt. He shuffles me into a large armchair, and I curl into his lap and cry. I'm not sure how long we sit there, me soaking his grungy dress shirt and him rocking me back and forth. But eventually he pushes me back slightly to look me in the eye. "I said it before, you do whatever it takes to come home. They'll be no judgment from any of us, okay?" I nod shakily. "You look after that Anderson boy." I immediately freeze. "Relax, son. I've known for several years. I don't care what you are or who you love. Just remember that the chances are you will lose him in that arena." I fight the tears that spring to my eyes. "He loves you too, you know?" Of course I know. But we haven't told each other that yet. "I have something for you." He reaches into his pocket and extracts a thick, black metal chain. Dangling from the chain is a tiny model of a train, also black metal. I recognized the type; it was one of the many in the station that my father uses to construct actual trains. "This was your mother's. She loved to examine the model trains at the station when she'd visit. I took this one—I know, I know, stealing is illegal, I was young—and fashioned it into a necklace. When she...when she died, she told me to give it to you. I've been bringing it to every Reaping since, hoping I'd never have to give to you, but now...I'm hoping you'll use it as your token."

My eyes are watering again as I carefully take the chain from my father. "I...thank you." I wrap my arms around his neck again.

He laughs once and extracts himself from my grasp. "You take care, Kurt. I love you."

I hug him one last time. "I love you too."

We stand and he leaves, a final smile before the door shuts. The Peacekeepers reenter, and they escort me into the hallway, where Blaine and Brittany are already waiting. The eleven of us retreat back to the station in silence, where we board a Capitol train pointing west. I don't look out the window as we pull out of the station.

I feel Blaine behind me, so I turn to face him. His eyes are slightly red, so I know mine must be swollen. He slides and arm around my shoulder, and we collapse onto a plush red couch in the car. Brittany examines an ornate tapestry on the other side. For a moment, things are peaceful.

Then Will Shuester charges through a door, and he claps his hands together. "Okay, kids, let's get down to business!" He motions for us to follow him through the same door he came through, and we find ourselves in an antechamber of sorts. The carpet is plush and blue, a round wooden table dominates the center, and a large television screen hangs on the paneled wall. There is one old door per wall, which Will tells us lead to our bedrooms. We sit at the table, and Will introduces us to the two older women already sitting there. "Kids, this is Shannon Beiste—" The burlier woman waves once and gives a friendly smile. "—and Sue Sylvester." The other woman, one with a sour expression, doesn't acknowledge Will. "These women will be your mentors for the Games. Shannon won the Fifty-second Games, and Sue the Forty-fourth. Both are fierce, and will do everything in their power to help you win."

"From the looks of you," Sue barked, "none of you will." The rest of us are speechless. "Well? Who are you?" We jump at her demanding tone. "What can you do? Hunt? Hide? Run? Fight? What are your strengths?"

"Sometimes my cat and I play hide and seek," Brittany murmurs. "I even win sometimes." We all stare, unsure if she's serious or not.

"Alright, bet's off on Batty," Sue says dismissively. She turns to Blaine and me. "How 'bout you boys? What can you do?"

We exchange a look, and Blaine speaks first. "I'm a pretty good fighter."

"Good!" Shannon finally speaks, and her voice is surprisingly high. "What kind of fighting?"

"Hand to hand." I stifle a snort when Blaine puffs his chest out slightly in pride.

"What about you?" Sue snaps, turning her cold gaze on me.

What about me? I can practically build a train with my eyes closed, and I know the inner workings of hovercrafts like the back of my hand. I know which herbs are beneficial to the health of my father's heart. I can sing. I'm very flexible.

None of that is going to help me in the arena.

I look to Blaine for help, and he scrambles to answer. "You can build stuff!" Sue huffs, but Blaine presses on. "No, remember that time we snuck—I mean, when you were showing me around the train station, you found those old scraps of metal and—I don't know—you did something with them, and it was damn impressive, because the next thing I know, you have this tiny contraption that can snap your finger off."

Shannon smiles, impressed. "Can you build with nonmetals?"

I nod hesitantly. "I can fashion furniture out of pretty much everything. I had to, because we sure couldn't buy any." I can feel the tears coming up again, and I choke them down, my hand automatically seeking Blaine's under the table.

That doesn't escape Sue's notice. "You two together?" Our hands spring apart, and our faces color, giving us away. "Relax, Porcelain, Hobbit. I don't care. We can work that to our advantage."

Blaine frowns. "That's not a good idea. Six is bad enough with its...views on homosexuality. The other districts aren't going to be any better. The last thing we need is to give the other tributes another reason to want us dead."

"You have to pick your battles," Sue insists, staring Blaine right in the eye. "They're going to want you dead no matter what you are to each other. But in the Capitol, gay people are just as accepted as straight people. Look, there hasn't been an openly gay tribute since the Twenty-seventh Hunger Games. That tribute got more gifts from sponsors than every other kid combined. That's because the gay community likes to see representation in the Games. The kid would have won, but he ended up being allergic a soup they sent him, and, well, it didn't end well. My point is, by being two strong, out, _together_ gay boys, you'll have Capitol fans clamoring to be your sponsor."

"And more good news," Shannon interjected. "The rule sent in place at the end of last year's Games—if all remaining tributes in the arena are from the same district, there can be multiple victors—is being brought back."

My heart immediately soars. Blaine turns and grins at me the happiest, dopiest grin I've seen in a long time. I know we're thinking the same thing: _we can both make it through this._

"But President Snow said that only one can win," Brittany interjects dreamily, the first comment of substance she's made all day.

Will smiled at the girl. "This tidbit is a surprise for the Capitol viewers, who responded positively to the twist last year. They won't find this out until the interviews."

"What this means for you three," Shannon explains, "is that you have a built-in alliance. The more of you that survive the better, so the best thing you can do is pool your talents and resources and learn to win together." Blaine and I nod. Brittany traces the grain in the wood with her fingertips. Will dismisses us to our bedrooms, and we go. The quarters are small, with a bed, a dresser, and an adjoining bathroom each, but they are still over half the size of my entire house back home. The dresser is filled with opulent clothes that strike my interest. I pick out some tight-fitting leather pants and a shimmering golden shirt and carry them into the bathroom. The shower is enormous. I've only used a shower a handful of times, at Blaine's house; my family has a single bathtub that we share. There are so many knobs and dials inside that I can't help but try them all. I finally shower under a hard, scalding spray with fragrant bubbles, cleaning the motor oil and dirt from my skin and hair. Feeling refreshed, I shut off the water and dress, leaving my hair wet.

I slip out of my bedroom and into Blaine's. His room is identical to mine, with plush blue carpets and elaborate matching fabrics. I can hear he's still in the shower, so I lounge in the large armchair near the dresser. I have no idea why I'm so comfortable. I know I should be hysterical, should be panicking, should be planning, but all I can do is think about the boy in the water. Soon enough, I hear the water pressure turn off, and Blaine emerges in a cloud of steam. Naked.

I immediately slap a hand over my eyes and shout, "Oh, god, Blaine, sorry, I—"

Through my incoherent babble I hear him grab clothes from the dresser. "Oh, uh, Kurt! I, um, didn't expect you! I'm just...going to...yeah..." I hear the bathroom door shut again, and I tentatively remove the hand from my eyes. Blaine is gone, but the burning heat in my cheeks is not. I barely have a chance to mentally berate myself before Blaine reemerges, his curls only towel-dried. He is dressed in tight gray pants that only reach half-way down his shins and a black long-sleeved shirt that hugs his every curve very, very closely.

Trying not to stare, I squeak, "So, sorry about the shock earlier, I just...assumed...I don't know what, but I'm sorry."

Blaine just laughs. "Don't worry about it." He crosses over to me and silently takes my hand. He guides me to the bed and lays down, cradling me in his arms. Neither of us speaks for a long time. I devote my attention to the feel of his body against mine, just in case. Finally, he presses his lips to my hair and murmurs, "We are going to survive this."

I desperately want to believe him, but I don't say anything. At some point, we fall asleep, fully clothed, atop his obscenely comfortable bed, still in each other's arms.

* * *

><p><em>The forest is wet. The after-storm drizzle drips off of everything, and it soaks me to the bone. The chirp of birds and scurry of squirrels creates a deceptively safe ambience that I don't trust in the slightest. Only the squelch of wet leaves under my feet is enough sound to keep me grounded. <em>

_Until I hear it. A scream that I would know anywhere. It rips through the forest, startling robins from their perches and sending a few rabbits into hiding. It is a scream of pure agony, of pure fear—of death. _

_I break into a cold sweat and bolt, searching for the scream. How did we become separated? Why am I out here alone? We promised we'd make it through this together—so why is he somewhere else, somewhere not with me, somewhere dying?_

_I realize after far too long that even though I'm running as fast I possibly can, I'm not moving. The trees around me are the same ones that were there when I first heard the scream that refuses to die. Please, can't it stop? If I can't save him, can someone just put him out of his misery? The scream only intensifies. _

_Until it cuts off completely, and I know just how alone I am._

"BLAINE!" I jolt upright, breaking out of Blaine's grasp. I'm gasping for air, my skin shiny with sweat. With wild eyes, I search out Blaine's form in the darkness, throwing myself onto him before he can fully sit up.

"Kurt?" He hugs me tight, letting me sob into his shirt. "Kurt, what happened?"

"I was lost and you weren't there and you were screaming and I tried to get to you but I couldn't move no matter how fast I ran and then you weren't screaming anymore—" I choke off, my babbling muffled by my face pressed into his neck. I need to calm down, to stop being so immature, to just _get over it_, but I can't.

Blaine makes soothing noises in my ear, rocking me gently back and forth until my sobs subside. After the terror abides, shame takes over. I just made a complete fool of myself and needed to be comforted like a child. Just what District 6 wants in their tribute.

I pull away from Blaine and curl into myself. "Sorry," I murmur, avoiding his gaze.

His arms snake around my waist again, and his chin rests on my shoulder. "Sorry for what? Having a nightmare? I had one earlier, Kurt. I just didn't wake you. There's no shame in fear, Kurt. I'm...I'm terrified too, you know? We could die out there. It's okay to be afraid. We just have to have courage."

I understand what he's saying, but I still don't want him to see me cry, so I just bury my face into his chest and lie down, pulling him with me. We lay together in the darkened train bedroom, silent again until we fall asleep.


End file.
